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Mike Barlow

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Interference

Your voice crackles with distance.
You are just a mile away,
across town, but the line
picks up a seawash,
the whine of a wind carrying us
between co-ordinates
where every fourth word disappears.

From the window here I watch
the street lamps snaking on the water,
as the last boat working from the Quay
slides upriver, turns,
navigation lights revolving red round green
to head down on the tide.

A year ago you phoned from Oregon
your voice so clear
you might have been sat next to me.
I heard the sea then as you described
the drum of big pacific rollers,
and your laughter slapped
like high tide against a pier.

Tonight across the town
waves of interference
put us continents apart.
I cannot catch you so my thoughts drift
with that small boat where soon
two figures will be paying out their nets
on the tricky waters of the Bay;
the stars of Fleetwood will be visible,
a faint scar of light
to separate the dark sea from the sky.

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